


Like Satellites and Shooting Stars, Like a Star that has Seen the Sun

by oneforyourfire



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alien Sex, M/M, Tentacle Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 06:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11330268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: In the pulsing strobelight, haloed in neon blue and stark white, he looks exotic and commanding and dangerous and elegant, and like another indulgence that Bakehyun should allow him to to make





	Like Satellites and Shooting Stars, Like a Star that has Seen the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: xenophilia, barebacking, alcohol use, drunk baekhyun touching the other exos a lot before settling on kyungsoo

That moment—just as the engines roar, just as the neon green commands flicker on the screen, just as Baekhyun's fingers skip over the instrument panels in preparation, just as the white plumes surround the ship’s front window, just as the sharp mountains scrape the horizon—that exact moment, as he enters the atmosphere, as the ship’s body shakes, as weightlessness, the ensnaring splendor of space gives way to the sharp drop in gravity, the trembling abrupt halt of docking, that moment, that _exact_ moment, it’s always one of Baekhyun's favorites.

That moment, it feels like soaring. It feels like dying.

And honestly, it's almost worth the crushing, vast loneliness of months in space, almost worth the monotony of endless, endless stretches of inky darkness, the acute pang of loneliness as he scales the desolate wastelands and ghost towns of abandoned planets, populated ones, too. It's almost worth it, that singular perfect, perfect moment of free fall, that perfect, perfect moment of glittering hope and vibrant, precarious, shatteringly vulnerable _being_

Gravity crashes into him, swoops low in his belly, shuddery through his limbs, sharp and fast and violent, and oh, he loves the disorientation and exhiliration of knowing he’ll finally, finally, finally be able to touch land. Loves the sudden, electronic blip of the swelling numbers in his galactic credit chip. Loves even the heady emotional cocktail of helpless, residual awe, sprinkled with the nausea of docking, the prickling, sudden, crippling need to use his limbs.

It’s popular, this destination, equidistant between three important planetary systems, large, well-populated, the atmosphere more forgiving than most.

And he'll have a chance over the next two weeks to restock, refuel, relay the information he’s collected—a catalog of new plants discovered, non-intelligent, the reported income, classification, and population numbers over 5 planet systems—relax, relearn to be human.

 

The sky has already darkened, the sun a fading angry red glint in the sky, and Baekhyun wants only to find lodging, scrub himself clean, change his clothes before stumbling into one of the many seedy bars near the star port.

Baekhyun, he has time. But it’s too persistent, that restless itch beneath his skin, that pricking in the nape of his neck. Baekhyun feels too small and tight and helpless in his body, needs to touch and be touched, to remember how his skin, his limbs, his body works, needs to find an appropriate outlet for the stressful, tight, tight need thrumming through his veins.

And he needs to burn a good hunk of his galactic units on drinks, debauchery, charm some willing species into wasting their units on him, too.

And oh, the atmosphere here, it's heavy and heady, crippling, foreign, not nearly as forgiving as it could be, but oh, Baekhyun feels so fucking free. This reminds him that he’s fucking free.

The weight of his radiation cloak, the eerie infared violet of his radiation glasses, the harsh, sharp, sharp sting of the desert wind as it brushes against the accidental peeks of his bare skin, they remind him that he’s fucking free, too. Fucking _alive_. Fucking _human_. Fucking terrifyingly fragile.

The way water sluices off his skin, down the drain, the way soap bubbles, even the way that denim chafes, the way leather tugs, it makes him feel alive, too.

These nights are few and far between. And it’ll be another two weeks before he’s on the ship again, life reduced to the endless vastness of space, broken only with the occasional passing ship, the infrequent planetary stop, the staticky drone of calls.

It’s the longest break he’s had in months, the longest break he’ll have in months, too, he knows.

And he stumbles into the bar, restless, intent. He _needs_ this, shivers as recalls the lonely, lonely nights, when his body is too stressed, drained, weak to even maintain an erection, skin restless, crying out for touch, for relief, heart panging with it.

And it doesn’t matter the planet, the planetary system, the _galaxy_ , they all look the same, smell the same after a while, dim, smokey, grimy, filled to the brim with people, creatures as desperate and lonely and restless as he.

There’s relief, too, in congestion, in the fleeting graze of skin, fur, scale against skin.

They all sound the same after a while, too. And though it’d been jarring at first, the music, too discordant, the cacophonous, too loud, too fast rhythm slithering across his skin, prickling through his body, it’s welcome now, too. Harsh and ugly and _real_ , a reminder that he’s alive, too. And he’s adapted to this, as well, swaying to the beat as he sidles to the bar, still thrumming with restlessness, with intent.

It’s been long—too fucking long—since he drank, _actually_ drank, and the alcohol here, it’s always so potent, harsh and stinging and burning as it goes down, strong enough to leave his mind fuzzy after two shots, reeling by the fourth. Lurching unsteadily into others' embrace and drinking and drinking and drinking.

He likes feeling the burn of it in his throat, the sting of it in his nostrils, the slosh of it in his belly as he tosses his head back and dances until he’s dizzy and vibrant and reckless, head hazy with carefree intoxication, fogged with just the vestiges of lust. He likes tasting the alcohol on the tip of another person’s tongue, too, smelling it on their skin.

And oh, Baekhyun has time, but it’s been so, so long.

He loses his inhibitions, the residual tension from landing, the details.

Bold, bolder, as he stumbles into other academy graduates.

There’s a certain solidarity, camaraderie, attraction and familiarity that comes with being ground into a rounded cog in this machine, being promised the glamor, the excitement of fighting pirates, smugglers, making a _difference_ , only to get something much more mundane. Census keeping, tariff collecting, mail delivery.

And as he drinks and drinks and drinks, Baekhyun can only remember the stuttering grind of Jongdae’s thighs between his, the kiss of Yixing’s dimple of his throat, waist, upper thigh, the cut of Chanyeol’s teeth, the way that Joonmyun’s fingers feel just shy of too much, too hard, too possessive, but how they turn tight and mean when Minseok and Lu Han surround him, take him instead. The way the stiff buttons of Yifan’s military uniform scrape against his collarbone, throat. The quiver of Sehun’s throat against his lips, his teeth, the blooming bruise of his strong fingers on Baekhyun’s shoulders, the aching solidity of his long, long, lean limbs curling forward into his body as he sways clumsy and dirty and white hot. The way that Zitao, so unnervingly tall and captivatingly, achingly pretty with his feline lines, bioluminescent skin, sharp fangs, rocks into him, sinful and too-bold, too-hot, too, too, too-much. The way Jongin shivers in his arms, blushes dark when Baekhyun offers to buy him a drink, becomes dizzyingly sultry with his parted, plush lips, lush-lashed eyes as he sways his hips filthy and fluid and breathtakingly beautiful against his.

It's nice to let loose, nice to be free—finally, finally free after months of penance. And the attention he gets, that’s nice, too. The limbs, eyes, lips locked on him. Baekhyun is indulging, indulging, indulging, gorging, gorging, gorging until he's had his fill, losing track of limbs, lips, touches, tongues, but knowing he’s wanting, being wanted in turn.

And it doesn’t really matter who or when or how when his heart is soaring, his mind soaring, too, body, too, weightless and unfettered and wholly his own, for his own use.

And Baekhyun drinks more, dances more, wants more, heals more, fluttering butterfly light, butterfly pretty through the crowd.

He halts when he sees him.

Kyungsoo is a frequenter here, too, an anthropologist, an academy graduate, too, and Baekhyun stumbles towards him, captivated by his dark eyes, plush lips, heavy eyebrows. In the pulsing strobelight, haloed in neon blue and stark white, he looks exotic and commanding and dangerous and elegant, and like another indulgence that Bakehyun should allow him to to make, so he does, sidling besides him on the bench as the music crescendoes, ringing and shrill and so, so loud.

“When did you land?” he asks by way of greeting, or maybe more appropriately slurs, tipping forward so the words sear near Kyungsoo's flattened ears.

“Just tonight,” Kyungsoo answers. And oh, it’s nice knowing that he’s not the only one. With the silence, the itch.

“Buy me a drink,” he coaxes, or maybe slurs, and Kyungsoo nods, buys him three in the end, winds his arm around his body—webbed fingers teasing over the chafing denim at his waist, tugging leather around his lower back. Baekhyun loops his own arms around Kyungsoo's small, lithe waist, anchoring himself, holding tight as he grinds forward into his swaying body.

Baekhyun’s too bright, too vibrant, sparkling, weightless, effervescent, too drunk to temper his light, laughing into Kyungsoo’s throat, dropping kisses along the length of his sharp, beautiful jawline, bold, bold, bold, emboldened.

Kyungsoo isn’t terran, not like Baekhyun. But not like Zitao either. And it’s most obvious when Baekhyun presses close, the slow, slow way his eyes blink, horizontally, vertically, the faint smell of sea to his skin, the distinct way his hips bump against Baekhyun’s.

He's done research before, on his comm device at work, continued to seedier websites at home, on layovers in other port planets, during moments of painful curiosity, spent an obscene amount of galactic credits on a vibrator that promised it could even recreate the sensations, and oh, he can feel it now, the hint of it, as he grinds insistently against the stiff material of Kyungsoo’s tight, tight pants, drops succulent kiss up the gorgeous column on his throat. And oh, he wants it.

“Take me home,” he insists, and Kyungsoo’s hips jump against his, swirling just the slightest. Kyungsoo tilts his head back, lets Baekhyun drop succulent kisses up his throat, lets Baekhyun guide him against the wall. Head tossing back, lips parting. His teeth, Baekhyun notes, are sharper, glimmering white. And oh, he wants that, too.

It's lonely for him, too, he knows. He’s probably thrumming with restless energy, too, he knows.

"Okay," he says

The sirens wail—solar winds, radiation—as they yank on their protective gear.

Kyungsoo holds his hand between the gaps in their cloaks, warm and steadying as they stumble to a nondescript, bricked pod hotel near the planetary dock. It’s seedy, cramped, no doubt already stocked with a species-acomodating variety of lubes, dental dams, condoms. The carpet is patchy, worn, the walls thin, and Baekhyun can hear the distinct echoing squeak of bedsprings, rhythmic, telling—fucking.

He wants it, too—so very badly. And with Kyungsoo.

Fuck, he’s going to—finally with Kyungsoo.

Drunk, bold, he bites on the nape of Kyungsoo’s neck as he fumbles with his keycard, slides his arm around his waist and smiles into his skin when Kyungsoo shudders, pushes back into the touch.

And the sirens wail again—solar flares, this time—as they stagger inside.

It’s more than what’s between his legs—and if Baekhyun is being honest, it’s never, ever really what’s between someone’s legs—but he’s still aching for it, still burning with curiosity and desire for it.

Kyungsoo, he has so _many_ —has seven if the videos on Baekhyun's search history are anything to go by—and Baekhyun he's never even touched _one_.

"Give me at least one," he insists, pinning Kyungsoo against the cheap floral wallpaper, kissing him drunk and insistent and restless and needy, tongue running over the tip of his sharp teeth, the roof of his mouth, teasing over Kyungsoo's as presses achingly close, paws at the front of his pants, and Kyungsoo laughs into the kiss he’s dropping to the corner of Baekhyun’s mouth—tight and hot and labored.

His lips are swollen and ruddy—from Baekhyun’s mouth, from Baekhyun’s kisses—and fuck, he just _wants_ , can feel the vague stirring of Kyungsoo's wanting, too.

But “You’re drunk,” he says, and Baekhyun hates how steady his voice is, like he hadn’t drunk as much, like the thought of them fucking doesn’t make his skin shudder with desire. He hates also how deep his voice is. Fuck, really he just—wants. No, needs, really. It’s that urgent. And maybe if he wasn’t so drunk, inhibitions weren’t so lowered, maybe this would be mortifying.

But as it is, he _needs_ —at least to try.

“Just one,” he says.

“You’re drunk,” Kyungsoo repeats, peeling Baekhyun’s fingers from around his shoulders. “It makes you too ambitious.”

This is less ambitious, he almost wants to tell him. He's been much more ambitious, much more curious. He was greedy during his years at the intergalactic school, greedier in the academy, greediest yet on his first assignment in the outer ring of the asteroid belt. He's had allergic reactions to caustic sexual fluids, close calls with barbs, hooks, scales, fur, excess limbs, watched in wonder as transluscent shivers then slickens with arousal, as partners turn towards the angry sun to recover their strength via photosynthesis. He’s sated his curiosity, his arousal, made several species from several planetary systems come, made them come _hard_ , too.

“I can take it," he says instead.

And Kyungsoo, with his mussed hair and kiss-swollen lips and dark eyes and seven fucking tentacles, shuffles him onto the bed, fingers warm, promising around his wrist, too firm to protest. “Not tonight,” Kyungsoo says, and oh, he’s so strong. Baekhyun hasn’t fucked someone this strong in a _while_.

It makes him feel giddy with desire, dizzy with half-formed fantasies.

"It want it,” he says, trembling when Kyungsoo collapses beside him, still fully dressed, close, close, close enough to placate him.

“No,” he repeats, but the pads of his thumbs tickle as the skate up his wrists. Petulant, persuasive, Baekhyun peels off his jeans, leaves them tangled at the end of their cheap, too-hard pod bed, curls into the solidity of his warm body.

"When I'm sober," he mutters into the charged air between him, his own hand skating up the wrinkled mess of Kyungsoo’s shirt, wrinkling it further, collecting all the warmth bleeding through the material, "I'm still gonna want it. Will you give it to me then?”

Kyungsoo hums noncommittally, presses even closer. The moonslight caresses the sharp contours of his jawline, the cut of his dark eyes as he blinks once horizontally, once vertically, and Baekhyun tips forward to kiss him, taste his warm exhale.

And Baekhyun falls asleep like that, lips pressed to his, heart thrumming, skin singing with the delayed gratification of indulgence.

 

Nights here last longer, much much longer, and it’s still dark when he rouses hours later, the sky outside their spotted window painted a stark, stark black, dotted with glittering stars. The moonslight falls gold and dreamy across a stirring Kyungsoo, beautiful and captivating as he shifts.

Baekhyun's throat feels dry, skin tight, his muscles sore from the awkward position, but he watches Kyungsoo in lieu of moving, drinking in the slow, quiet way he rouses. His face is soft, pillow-creased, pale, his lips sleep-swollen, hair sleep-rumpled. His eyelashes cast dark across his cheekbone. Gorgeous, otherworldly, achingly so.

And yes, it isn’t just what’s between his legs, fuck, that doesn’t explain the way Baekhyun’s heart lodges in his throat. But, fuck he really wants to get at what’s between his legs, too.

"Please fuck me," he says, and Kyungsoo, still blinking sleep from his eyes, still shifting sleepily into wakefulness, shudders, pauses, then nods.

Baekhyun’s never kissed an Ojineo sober before, didn't give Kyungsoo a chance to give him back last night, but it’s easy once they find their rhythm, their angle. Kyungsoo tastes warm, wet, salty, and Baekhyun’s fingers stumble over the fabric of his shirt, underwear, grasping uselessly, but tugging insistently. And Kyungsoo grasps, too, tugs, too, but much more useful, much more insistent, much more effective. Between dizzying, he strips Baekhyun of his leather tank top, his underwear.

Kyungsoo pulls back, teeth sharp, breathing wet against Baekhyun's throat as he takes Baekhyun in. And his gaze makes him suddenly self conscious, about the extra softness along his stomach, waist, the atrophy of disuse, outer space. And Kyungsoo he has to have seen a terran human before, a prettier one, leaner, more supples, but he still touches him slowly, appraisingly, maybe almost reverently. The pads of his fingers linger on the dip of his shoulders, tremble along the raised hair at his arms, then inwards towards his chest, and Baekhyun yanks him forward into another kiss, moans over and over and over into his warm, wet, salty mouth.

He yanks at his clothes, too. 

Kyungsoo looks less terran beneath his clothes—smooth planes on his chest where his nipples should be, a smattering of swirling, webbed, baby blue protusions along his ribs, his stomach, tapering at the curve of his soft, pale, pale waist. His skin is smooth, soft, warm to the touch, pale save for the dark, dark blue between his legs, a puckered opening.

“My sheath,” he says when Baekhyun stares.

“Are they—”

“Yeah. They’re—there. I’m just nervous,” he confesses, then laughs. It makes him nose scrunch. “In the porn you’ve watched,” Kyungsoo breathes shakily. “They’re already turned on, already out. But they retreat when I'm nervous."

Baekhyun guides Kyungsoo’s hand to his chest, lays his palm flat, so he can feel how fast, reckless his heart is beating.

“Oh,” he says.

“I'm nervous, too.”

Kyungsoo nods, bites his lip, then reaches between his legs to ease them out.

Baekhyun, rapt, watches the slow, fluid way they unfurl. Seven. Seven whole tentacles. They’re that same shade of dark, dark blue, coiled tight, and they stir just the slightest as Kyungsoo cups them, swallows heavily.

“Ambitious,” he repeats, and Baekhyun nods automatically. Then shakes his head.

He offers the inside of his wrist, and Kyungsoo blinks, scoots forward. The tentacles unfurl just slightly more. Kyungsoo lets one—tight, shivering—drag against the skin. It oozes, heavy, hot, wet, clear, congealing. Doesn’t burn.

“Is it the same?” he asks, and Kyungsoo nods. Then shakes his head.

“Well, almost. It’ll be a different color. The texture...” He trails off, and his eyes drop deliberately to Baekhyun’s crotch, as if appraising. And _oh_.

“Your first, too?"

Kyungsoo nods, and his hand is shaking as it drops to his chest. The webbing between his fingers catches and drags. Baekhyun swallows a gasp.

“Your skin,” he says. “It flushes so pretty.”

“The porn you’ve watched,” Baekhyun murmurs, shivering when Kyungsoo’s thumb teases over the stained pink of his chest, dips into the contours of his sternum. “It’s from being aroused. In the porn you’ve watched," he parrots, "they’re probably already turned on.”

Kyungsoo shakes his head, presses down just slightly firmer. The touch is achingly warm, still much too soft. “None of them flush as pretty as this.”

The compliment is absentminded, more an observation than flattery, but more heat crawls across his skin. And Kyungsoo, he notes, flushes, too. A startling, pretty purple.

He gropes downward for a tentacle, thumb teasing at the end.

Kyungsoo’s breath hitches, lips wobble with a moan. Baekhyun's hand spasms, drops to claw at his own thighs instead. 

"Can I touch you, too?" Kyungsoo whispers.

Kyungsoo doesn’t use his hands, though and Baekhyun gasps into his throat, grasps shakily at his hair as a single tentacle slithers up his waist, teases over his ribs, settles on his chest. He circles around a nipple, eyebrows furrowing as it pebbles. 

"This is an errogenous zone, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

"Can I…?"

“ _Yes_.”

Kyungsoo swirls, tenses, then oozes, wet, thick, warm. Baekhyun’s head tips back with a moan, thinks of Kyungsoo's painfully plush lips, his achingly sharp teeth. “Humans—terrans, they usually use their mouths.”

“Where else?”

“Hm, everywhere. Neck, Chest. Cock. Thighs." An entirely too shuddery moan. "Ass.”

Kyungsoo's tentacle skims them quickly, dips back between his legs, curls around his cock. It’s warm, wet, too, hot, hot, hot.

He strokes. Too rough, too fast, it chafes. Baekhyun hisses, and Kyungsoo slickens, corrects. "Just like that,” he breathes. “The most important one. Best—best right there.”

But he moves to slide over his thighs again, slow and soft, a memorizing, appraising touch, too. Fascinated, he watches. 

Baekhyun squirms

“Do you want my mouth?” he asks, tickling so very, very high. 

And fuck, _fuck_.

“I want it on my mouth,” he breathes.

And Kyungsoo tips forward to kiss him again, hot and hungry though still a little inelegant. Wet, too. Salty, too. Dizzying, too.

His tentacle continues to test, trace up, up, up, in, in, in, sliding over the slit of his cock, then the understide, tightening around the base, lazy, delicious. The suckers catch, drag, and Baekyun whimpers, shudders. Kyungsoo keeps touching, mouths at his neck, his collarbone, stumbles toward his nipple, teeth grazing.

“They,” Kyungsoo pauses, lips parting with a soft, moan, eyebrows pinching heavy and dark in his forehead, like he’s _savoring_. His tentacle curls around the tip of his cock, delicate, wet, lingering. “You taste _amazing_.”

Baekhyun glances downwards, and oh, they’ve darkened, flushed, an imperial purple.

And Kyungsoo is stroking again, bolder, mouthing mindlessly at his collarbone, whispering more absent compliments into his skin. How warm his skin is. How hot and wet he tastes. How he hopes hopes hopes that they really are compatible because he—fuck, he wants this, too.

Pleasure zips up Baekhyun's spine, and he collapses back against the rickety headboard with a gasp, jutting out his chest as Kyungsoo licks over the puckered skin, blinks up at him through his unnervingly dark eyelashes. Baekhyun is dizzy with how labored his breathing is, how disheveled his hair, how heavy and warm and promising and tight his tentacle is.

Baekhyun feels him shiver as he stumbles to tease along his the bump of his blue protrusions down to the concave dip of his waist, brave, brave, brave as he grasps gingerly at another tentacle.

It's dexterous, teasing, curious as it curls around his palm, then his wrist. Warm, wet, solid, heavy. Baekhyun runs his fingers over the grooves, and Kyungsoo’s lips part with a gasp. He skims his fingernails, and Kyungsoo shudders, strokes him again, tightening just the slightest before loosening, slithering around the base of his cock. The feeler tugs as he pulls away, lingering, and oh.

“Fuck me with it,” Baekhyun says, and Kyungsoo laughs. Baekhyun curls his fingers along the underside, testing, appraising, groping downwards for another.

They’re coiled tight—still, nervous, but his touch has them stirring, shifting, elongingating, thickening, darkening.

Heat slithers across his skin.

“Oh,” he says. “They've grown.”

Kyungsoo lets out this quiet almost moan, maybe moan, as Baekhyun squeezes experimentally. “Mine—ah—still, they’re gonna get even longer, harder.”

They’re sizable already, but Baekhyun’s he’s ambitious, wanting, squeezing again—tighter, twisting. The muscles beneath Kyungsoo’s pale skin tremble with pleasure. His tentacle curls around one of Baekhyun’s nipple, squeezes, relaxes.

“How long are they gonna get?”

“You said one,” Kyungsoo reminds him with a laugh. But it’s strained, and it breaks off into a breathy exhale as Baekhyun tightens his hold and strokes, twisting slow and languid, letting the suckers tug on his skin.

"You're not gonna share?"

Kyungsoo presses down harder, more firm, then retreats. The tug is firmer this time, too, an aching sort of dull. They leave pretty pink circles along his chest, stomach, and pleasure bursts through his skin.

“You’ll be my first,” Baekhyun murmurs, coaxing the tentacle closer, skimming his lips along the underside. The suckers catch, tug as he parts his lips wider, swirls his tongue. The appendage quivers in his hold, and Kyungsoo’s lips part with a moan, body jerks.

“You can control these completely?” he asks against the tapered tip, lips brushing, tongue grazing.

Kyungsoo nods sluggishly. Then shakes his head. “Sometimes they—they act on their own. Kind of—kind of like your foot tapping to muic.”

Baekhyun laves wet, sloppy, suckles then retreats, loving the tremble of Kyungsoo’s purple, wet, sticky skin against his lips.

“I think,” Baekhyun says, blinking up at him deliberately through his eyelashes, in that way that Jongdae says makes him look _sleaz_ _y_ , Chanyeol complains isn’t playing _fair_. Kyungsoo’s lip catches between his sharp teeth. “I think I want this one.”

He nuzzles into it, underscoring his point.

“Want?”

“Want it to fuck me.”

“Just the one?”

“No. I also want one in my mouth, maybe one on my cock. “ He shudders, recalls bound wrists, an echoing, broken cry. “Around my hands, too. Legs, too."

"The porn you’ve watched," Kyungsoo murmurs, but his voice is unsteady, his chest heaving.

“While thinking of you,” he breathes, and Baekhyun suckles again, swallows, tongue teasing.

Kyungsoo’s breath stutters into a moan. “I can see—” he whispers, shaky, affected, “Why—why people use their mouths.”

“Feels good?”

Kyungsoo's _yes_ hisses past his gritted teeth, and it has bold, bold need quivering through Baekhyun's limbs.

More, Baekhyun wants more.

Unsure of how much pressure to use, he grazes his teeth, scrapes them gently over a sucker, soothes it with a luxurious lick, and Kyungsoo’s entire body trembles. Encouraged, Baekhyun does it again and again and again, moans—and only just a little bit theatrical—as Kyungsoo tenses, secretes, relaxes. It’s warm, musky.

Baekhyun lets it pool on his tongue, opens his mouth for Kyungsoo to see, groans at how Kyungsoo’s eyebrows pinch and lips part at the sight.

And Baekhyun figures it’s as good a time as any to indulge himself. Lolling his head forward, relaxing his throat, he sucks hard, gags, shivers as he pulls away, bobs again, deeper, faster, sets a dirty, sloppy pace, and the exertion, Kyungsoo’s breathy moans burn through his body.

“Fuck me. I want it. Fuck me,” he coaxes, and Kyungsoo’s fingers stumble over his hair, tug him back towards his mouth, crashing against him with a groan. Baekhyun, he gropes for another, panting as Kyungsoo continues to just _swell_ in his hold. Another tickles over the jut of his hipbone, and Kyungsso moans as Baekhyun presses into it with a heavy tremor, climbs uncereomniously into his lap to grind against him.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says.

And Baekhyun braces himself on the solid breadth of his shoulders, nuzzles into the scraping jut of one baby blue protrusion, feels the way the skin ripples against his mouth as he drags deliberately against the tentacles swirling around Kyungsoo’s crotch. They’re longer, already, he can feel, thicker, the friction blunt and hot and wet, and oh, Kyungsoo’s moan—it’s this shuddery, breathless, beautifully affected thing, his handsome, flushed face pinched with pleasure.

“More,” Baekhyun insists, and Kyungsoo laughs, or tries. It’s more a shuddery sobbed exhalation.

“You said one,” he reminds him even as he curls, teases another along the quivering skin of his chest, loops loosely around his throat. Baekhyun licks sloppily at what he can reach, is rewarded with more of that warm, salty musk.

“I’m greedy," he confesses in a rush. "I can take it," he continues. "Can take them _all_." Kyungsoo's other tentacle curls, teases over the pucker of his nipple, wet and succulent. He gasps, arches into that, too. "Fuck me like you fuck the others. _Mate_ me." And he doesn’t miss the way that Kyungsoo’s shoulders tremble at that. Kyungsoo’s eyebrows furrow, too, and his eyelashes look so dark and pretty and glittering and dangerous, fluttering like that, regarding him so unnervingly carefully.

And oh, Baekhyun _wants_ him, wants to be treated and taken like Kyungsoo treats and takes. Wants to indulge. Wants to gorge himself. 

“Fuck me with them,” he cajoles, nuzzling, fluttering his eyeslashes as Kyungsoo’s tentacle drags wet and hot and sticky against his cheek. “All of them," he clarifies. “Fuck me with all of them."

Kyungsoo’s eyelashes flutter again, and his eyes are heavy-lidded and glazed over and beautiful and dangerous and so, so hot.

“It’s always terran-ojineo,” he says, slithering up his body, teasing over the goosebumped skin on his waist, his thighs, his chest, too. Baekhyun tips forward clumsily, sucks him into his mouth as soon as he can, and Kyungsoo swallows, exhales shakily before continuing. “It’s less—less dangerous when it’s between us. It’s more natural."

"I can take it," he insists. "I want it to badly, Kyungsoo."

"I need a sign, Baekhyun. I need you to—if it's too much. Okay?"

Baekhyun nods, coils his fingers around the tapered end of one tentacle, taps his fingers thrice against the slick, warm skin, and Kyungsoo's lip part with another soft, barely, barely audible moan.

“Stuff me full,” he tries. “ _Mate_ me.”

And there’s not mistaking Kyungsoo’s moan, then. How shuddery and breathless and affected it is. How much he wants this, too.

“Arms, legs,” he instructs around a broken moan. “Mouth, ass.”

Kyungsoo nods, but dips between his legs again instead, skates lower this time, skims slowly.

“Arms, legs,” he repeats. “Mouth, ass.”

He chokes a whine as Kyungsoo complies, winding around his wrists, his ankles, teasing up his throat and then along his lips. He raises him.

And oh, oh, _oh_ , they’re strong, strong enough to support his weight entirely, keep him suspended midair, perfectly, perfectly still. Just like the porn he’s watched, just exactly like the half-formed fantasies he’s imagined, and fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

He struggles, feels no give. Panic bubbles inside him, laces with disorientation, exhiliration. And oh no, it's even better than the porn he's watched. It’s real, and it’s Kyungsoo, with his dark eyes and his heavy eyebrows and his heaving throat, face stained with concentration as a sole tentacle dips between Baekhyun’s legs again, wet, soft, sucullent, tender, slow as a kiss. As a _taste_.

"Kyungsoo,” Baekhyun moans, pressing into it, whimpering as the flared end swirls.

Dazed and dizzy with desire as he is, he still notes the weak tremor of Kyungsoo's response, his restraint. Baekhyun wants it—wants him—to break, grinding back against the whisper-soft, devastatingly delicate touch, panting, moaning as he watches Kyungsoo moan and tremble.

His legs tremble, too, fingernails scramble along the appendanges at his wrists, body protesting briefly around the bindings at his ankles, trying for some leverage, some anchor as Kyungsoo teases over and over and over again before finally sliding inside.

Deep, deep, deep. 

And oh, it’s the most beautiful collision. The most perfect friction imaginable. 

Baekhyun’s exhales a low, long, helpless moan, quaking with a debilitatingly full-bodied tremor, and Kyungsoo moans, too, though quieter, shakes, too, though subtler.

It’s nothing like the setting on his vibrator. Much much much smoother and warmer, blunter, achingly dexterous as it swirls inside of him, tensing, relaxing. Hot, hot, wet, wet, wet. He clenches around it, and Kyungsoo gasps.

He does it again, is rewarded with a sinful, dirty, dirty twist. The tentacles around his wrists shiver with sensation. And he’s vulnerable, prone, weightless, helpless, stuffed full and _loving_ it, biting into his own shoulder as he pants.

But he wants more. He's been promised more.

“Mouth,” he reminds him, whimpering when one tentacle slithers up his chest, teases over his trembling lips. He mouths at it eagerly, whimpers again as it shivers against the seam of his mouth. "I can handle it," he breathes.

And Kyungsoo hoists him up, drops him hard. His teeth rattle. His limbs tremble. He chokes past the sudden heft of Kyungsoo in his mouth. And fuck, it's so fucking _good_.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

And oh, Kyungsoo had been right. This was very, very ambitious of him. 

He hardly, hardly, hardly has a chance to catch his breath, moan as he drops again and again and again, speared open, wanton, needy, gasping and gagging and shaking and needing, garbling out that he still—still wants more. Harder and _more_.

Kyungsoo is everywhere, and even then, it’s not _enough_. Baekhyun was _stupid_ to think that he’d be fine with just one.

Another tentacle teases at his lips, and he clambers to swallows that, too, chokes as it snakes it’s way deeper, teasing over the roof of his mouth, the inside of his cheek into his throat before retreating. He manages a sob, broken and sloppy as it stumbles out. It’s clumsy, bumbling as it brushes his hair back, scrambles over his tear-streaked cheeks. Down his throat, over his nipples, moves finally to his cock, coiling, stroking. It’s too fast, too rough again, but perfect still, the grooves catching on his skin, and he wails—or chokes out what he can manage.

Kyungsoo drops him faster, faster, faster, stuffs him full—full to the brimming, heavy and hot and thick and perfect in his ass, his mouth, slithering also along his wrists, his ankles, over his cock. And he moans and chokes and gasps and gags and shakes and sobs and loves every white hot second of it.

It’s so _much_ , but Baekhyun, he can take it, keeps keeps keeps taking it until his body is quivering from the sensations, breaths stuttering and escaping in high-pitched moans, aborted little sobs, tears of pleasure, overstimulation, restricted airflow stinging in his eyes. Until he’s a mess of quivering limbs, his voice a tremulous, broken plea for fucking _more_

His hands scramble over the tentacles around his wrists, squeeze rhythmically, and the sound Kyungsoo lets out has him whimpering around the one pushing into his mouth.

“Please, fuck, _please_.”

And it just keeps getting faster, harder, _better_.

Even as prone and helpless and pinned as he feels, _is_ —fuck, fuck, fuck, he loves this, fuck, fuck, fuck—the ends of Kyungsoo’s tentacles are still curled around his wrists, within reach, a reassurance, and Baekhyun lets his body fall lax, loses himself in all the heady sensations, lifted, dropped, gagged, fucked, and it's perfect. And he’s so recklessly, helplessly in love. With Kyungsoo’s body, the way he’s fucking him. With his experience. With the exhiliration and disorientation and fear and violence and longing and indulgence. 

 _Fuck, gods, stars_.

“Kyungsoo,” he chokes. "Kyungsoo.”

It’s so messy and wet and overwhelming and violent and filthy and fast and rough, Kyungsoo’s tentacle tightening around his cock, the tip pressing insisently, cruelly against the sensitive underside of his erection as he drops him faster, twists and swells and fucks deeper, deeper, deeper, and Baekhyun chokes out a wail as he comes, shaking, sobbing, suspended as he shatters.

And oh, it feels like soaring, feels like dying, feels like it never, ever, ever ends. 

Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , but he can still still still take it, still wants to keep taking it.

The stimulation verges on painful, searing and overwhelming and darkly, excruciatingly gratifying. It’s too too too perfect to stop. He could take it, he’d told him. And he can. He can can can.

“Kyungsoo—fuck, _Kyungsoo_ ,” he manages around the heavy weight on his tongue, his words wet and muffled and pitched with need. “Kyungsoo, Kyungsoo, Kyungsoo.”

And just, just, just when Baekhyun thinks that he can’t any longer, Kyungsoo shudders, groans deep, deep, deep.

And Kyungsoo comes and comes and comes, empties himself completely with a weak, soft, soft moan, and Baekhyun collapses against the bed, watching through tear-matted eyelashes as Kyungsoo shivers and moans and streaks and streaks and streaks.

It spurts thick and wet and hot and shockingly purple across Baekhyun's skin, pooling in the corners of his mouth, sliding down his chin, across his arms, stomach, ankles, out of his ass, streaking onto the cheap hotel sheets, too, draining Kyungsoo completely.

Baekhyun, lax, sated, is waiting already to cradle his sweaty, sticky body, soothing his hands up Kyungsoo's trembling shoulders, down his goosebumped spine, over and around to his pinched face. He runs the pad of his thumb over his throat, then over his parted lips.

Kyungoo breathes his name, awed, rough, gratifyingly unsteady.

And sentimental, vibrant, glowing, sated, Baekhyun nuzzles into his heaving throat, pressing his nose into the sharp jut of Kyungsoo’s flushed jawline. The receding, lavender blush is pretty, warm against his skin.

His throat feels scratched, raw, broken, and he swallows several times before attempting to speak.

“Do you—” _Feel something, too_ , _Want this to be something more, too_ , _Want to go out sometime_. “Come so much every time? Even when you masturbate?”

Kyungsoo laughs, and it’s so weak, raspy, tickles against Baekhyun’s skin. His shifts, nuzzles, too, and his smile curls against Baekhyun’s throat. And Baekhyun still wants him, even after he’s gotten into his pants, want him even more honestly.

“No,” he says, after rubbing his warm palms soothingly, distractingly up, up, up, down, down, down his body for several beats. “It’s…the pheromones. How warm your body is...It’s my body preparing for mating.”

Something sharp and electric shoots up Baekhyun's spine, settles prickling and hot in the nape of his neck. He bites his lip to keep from moaning, confessing, fucking this up, waits several long, long beats. In his hesitance, he registers the faint bleep of the room’s filtration coming to life.

“Want me that much?” he drawls after a beat, tilting his sore, sore hips up and letting his lips pop on the jest.

Kyungsoo’s nose scrunches noncommittally, but his hands keep dragging up, up, up, then down, down, down. "Maybe," he hums.

**Author's Note:**

> ojineo is the romanization of korean 오징어


End file.
